The Shaking King

The stand: dais of eternal torment places
Upon itself a king whose crown is adorned with
All precious things, chicken fat slides over his pitted
Gums drops into his beard, he wipes it away
With palsied attempts at control, but he shakes
He shakes HE SHAKES. And he cannot
Control, his eyes shake, focus in and out: of focus
In the center of the dais he screams
It hurts, it grates like kittens being raped
And he crumples into a heap, not moving
His bald head and grey beard framing his lost expression
As sight and sound are gone, and smell
the feel of golden circles and the crown
tumbles and rolls across the floor
landing at your feet.